Supernova
by sydneysages
Summary: Sam Nicholls has always tried to be there for her friends. So when Robyn's struggling after Glen's death, she offers to help in any way she can. Somehow, can an errant request for baby wipes help to create a new future for two people who have never stopped caring about the other? /SamDylan


This is illogical and nothingness and probably makes no sense but I love Sam and I love Dylan and this is my way of making sure that their love story never ends

* * *

It feels like she's walking on air as she walks away from the side room which contains her husband – or, rather, what's now the body of her deceased husband. Or maybe walking on air isn't quite the right phrase to describe what she's feeling: time's moving slowly, but quickly at the same time, the air's both weightless and weighing down on her at different intervals; she can't recognise where she is or anyone around her.

Vaguely, in the back of her mind, she can hear people talking to her, calling her name, but she doesn't hear them, not really. Instead, she continues to walk out of the front of the hospital, out into the car park and to the benches to the left of the Emergency Department. But, rather than taking a seat as she normally would, she continues walking, going further into the hospital complex than she normally has cause to.

As she walks, she tries to make herself think, but her mind resists. She doesn't think of anything, of anybody, because to do so would hurt too much.

So she walks. And she walks.

The only thing that jolts her out of the catatonic state she's in for even a moment is the singular ring of her mobile, stuffed haphazardly into her pocket. Reflexively, she pulls it out and sees a name and a text that she hadn't realised she needed.

 _So sorry, Robyn. Here for you and Charlotte, no matter what you need, whenever you need. Sam x_

The phone goes back into the pocket, the brief moment of distraction complete, but somewhere in the back of Robyn's mind the message that Sam Nicholls is always there for her sticks in.

* * *

…

It's been the shift from hell for Sam Nicholls as she pulls her personal mobile out of her locker at a little after midday. The twilight shift became more of a night into day stint, resulting in her completing enough hours for two separate shifts. Sickness, training and a strangely high number of accidents in the city of Holby led to her – as apparently the most experienced paramedic – having to fill the gaps.

She's excited for a change of clothes, some food, and the comfort of her bed – or at least she is until she sees the text from Robyn.

 _Help me_.

Feeling the adrenaline course through her veins instantly, Sam notes the timestamp of the message is less than an hour ago, whilst simultaneously pressing the button to call Robyn back.

"Hello?" An almost vacant voice at the end of the phone speaks, and Sam has to take a second to process that this _is_ Robyn.

"Robyn?" Sam confirms. "It's Sam. You messaged me, sorry, I got caught up at work." She decides to wait for Robyn to say what exactly it is she wants, rather than making a prediction. It's unlikely but, for all she knows, Robyn messaged to ask what time Eastenders was on that evening.

"I don't think I can do this," Robyn whispers. "I…the funeral…and Charlotte, I just…I can't do it by myself."

Leaning against the locker door, Sam folds a leg so that her foot's pressed against Iain's work storage. "Sweetheart, you're not alone. Charlie and Duffy are there, and I'm here for you too…" Shifting the phone to her other ear, Sam continues, "what do you want me to do?"

A teary sob erupts down the phone, jolting Sam into action. Switching from her paramedic uniform to her own clothes with one hand, she keeps her focus on Robyn.

"I just need a break from Charlotte," Robyn admits. "She reminds me _so much_ of Glen, and she wants attention all the time. I can't…I need to book things." There's a hint of defiance in her tone at the end, but Sam can read right through her. She needs a break from the person who essentially brought Glen back into her life.

"Say no more," Sam replies firmly. "I'll be there as soon as I've finished getting changed."

"Thank you," Robyn whispers.

The line goes dead before Sam can reply, and she takes that as her cue to speed up.

On foot, it takes her less than fifteen minutes to get to Robyn's new flat, the one given to her by Glen less than a month ago, and she presses the doorbell three times.

"Hello?" Robyn's voice echoes from the speaker.

"Robyn, it's me, Sam," Sam half-shouts up into the strangely high speakerphone on the entrance to the block of flats. "Can you let me in?"

There's no reply but the door buzzes and starts to slowly open, though Sam's too impatient to wait for it to open fully. Instead, she pushes through the tiny gap and half-sprints up the two flights of stairs to Robyn's flat.

The door's open for her and the first thing that Sam notices is the smell of disinfectant combined with the smell that all babies, regardless of size, seem to attract.

"Robyn?" Sam says gently as she approaches her friend's back, keen not to startle her. "It's just me. How are you doing?"

"Fine," Robyn replies, turning around to face Sam. One quick glance at her face, however, confirms that this is a lie. "I'm just trying to talk to so many different people and nobody knows anything about life insurance or whether Charlotte's inheritance comes through or _anything_ and I don't know what to do." Tears start to form in her eyes, and Sam closes the gap between them, wrapping her arms around Robyn's back.

"Hey, Robyn, it's okay," Sam says gently, trying to gather the doctor-y diplomatic yet sensitive words of comfort from just a couple of years ago. "We'll get through it together, I promise. Now, who can I call?"

Snorting, Robyn shakes her head and pulls away from Sam's embrace. "Thanks, Sam, I really appreciate it…but I need to call these people myself. I need to work out exactly what position Charlotte and I are in…and make sure that Glen's put to rest exactly how he wanted."

Sam smiles and nods. "I understand. I'll go to Charlotte, make sure that she doesn't distract you. Do you want me to keep her in her bedroom?"

Robyn shakes her head again. "This is a big ask, and I understand if you don't want to…but could you take her for the day? Maybe…maybe the night too?"

Thinking about her upcoming shifts, Sam decides that she has enough time to look after a baby – even if it's a baby that she hasn't really spent much time with or expected to look after in the near future. But Robyn is her friend, and she's determined to do her bit to assist, to make her life even just one iota easier.

"Of course I can," Sam confirms, smiling brightly despite the prospect of doing something she's never really done before. "I've got a shift on Thursday but, if you want me still then, I can see about getting it swapped."

"Thanks, Sam," Robyn replies, squeezing her friend's arm. "I mean, I really appreciate it."

They talk for another half an hour, with Sam helping her friend to make a list of the things that she wants to get done (and the things that she really, really needs to), before the flat door closes and Sam's left with a baby in a pram, two bags of supplies, and a further bag of toys. And the challenge of a lifetime – because doctoring and being a paramedic pales in comparison to the responsibility of looking after your grieving friend's remaining link to her dead husband.

"Well, Charlotte," Sam says with a smile as she looks down into the pram. "Looks like it's just you and me for a bit…"

That the baby doesn't immediately cry is the first thing Sam decides to take as an achievement.

* * *

…

Everything's great for the first three hours. One hour's taken up by the walk back to Sam's, and a second by setting things up in the as-yet unused spare bedroom in her third-floor flat. The third, they play with a duck, with Sam trying to lower her voice as much as possible to achieve the ultimate Mr Duck to go with her equally impressive Doctor Donna Duck.

But then, everything goes wrong.

When Charlotte starts crying, she doesn't stop, Sam soon discovers. Feeding doesn't help, nor does Sam's increasingly erratic attempts to distract her. Then, Sam remembers about the other key element in keeping a baby happy: keeping them dry.

Opening Charlotte's nappy on the foldaway changing mat, Sam realises her mistake, though hopes that this means that she can help restore the serenity that had accompanied the first couple of hours of adopted motherhood.

However, as she reaches out for a new nappy and a couple of baby wipes, a jolt of horror sweeps through her.

"Shit," Sam mutters under her breath, barely audible over the crying. "No wipes. _Shit_."

In the rush to get out of the flat, she thought that Robyn had packed everything. Sudocrem, there are three pots. Wipes, not so abundant a commodity.

Thinking as fast as possible, she makes a mental list of the people who live near to her who are in the country. Louise is on holiday, David on a night shift. Iain's undergoing a hernia operation, and she sincerely doubts that calling _Connie Beauchamp_ to get her to bring wipes in would go down particularly well for a baby that isn't her own.

That leaves her with one single option.

Groaning, Sam reaches into her pocket and grabs her mobile. Selecting the number she wants, she presses her phone to her ear, holding it in place by her shoulder as she returns to attempting to wipe Charlotte's body with the towel covering the top of the drawers unit which has become the baby changing station.

"Hello?" The voice who answers the phone is crisp, yet clearly confused at the call.

Hesitating for a moment, Sam decides to push on. "Dylan? It's Sam. I need some help."

Sighing deeply, Dylan replies, "can't you call someone else? I'm busy." There's a short pause before he continues, "what on _earth_ is that racket?"

"You finished your shift ten minutes ago; I don't think that you're going to be that busy," Sam counters. "Don't ask why, I just need you to go to the shop and get at least three packets of baby wipes. Preferably scented ones. And an aerosol…oh no, maybe not. But a glade plug in would be brilliant. Sshhhh," before she finishes speaking to Dylan, she starts to whisper to Charlotte again, but to no avail.

"I can't hear you," Dylan retorts, and Sam has to resist screaming.

"THREE PACKETS OF BABY WIPES," she half-shouts, angling her phone so that her mouth is directly over the microphone.

"I…why…" Dylan begins to reply, but Sam interrupts.

"I said, don't ask. You know where I live, bring them now." Hesitating, she adds, "please, Dylan. I need you."

And with that, she drops the phone on the floor and commences a rendition of Old Macdonald's Farm that is so terrible, she'll laugh in ten years' time when she thinks back to this moment.

* * *

…

It takes him thirty five minutes to arrive, and every single second of every minute of the wait, Sam's convinced he isn't actually going to come.

"It's open!" Sam shouts through from the living room, where she's just about finished getting the replacement Babygro on Charlotte. It was too difficult to clean the mess up with a towel, so she caved and ran a small bath. Getting a one year old into the tub was harder than she had expected it to be, but the challenge is over – for now.

Hoisting Charlotte onto her hip, never stopping moving in the hope that it'll keep the child entertained, Sam heads towards the hallway of her flat just as the door begins to open.

"I don't know why," Dylan begins to say as he walks through the door, before his eyes lock on Sam – and Charlotte. "I…I think I need to go," he continues, though he doesn't move, clearly frozen in shock.

"Dylan, wait," Sam says, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of his jacket sleeve. "I…she isn't mine, obviously."

"Obviously," Dylan repeats weakly, his gaze focused on the baby.

"It's Robyn's Charlotte," Sam continues, taking Charlotte's left hand and waving it in Dylan's direction. "Robyn's just a bit overwhelmed with everything and asked me to look after Charlotte for a bit. Just whilst she gets everything sorted, isn't that right, Charlotte?" Towards the end of the sentence, she starts to coo, her attention switching from Dylan back to the baby in her arms.

"Ah, of course," Dylan murmurs, but his hand remains gripped on the door handle. "I…I thought Charlie and Duffy were helping with her?"

"They are," Sam confirms. "But Robyn asked for me to give a hand, and I said I'd do anything for her. So here we are."

"Right, well then," Dylan continues, returning to his usual, brisk tone. But his gaze flicks back to Sam, and his eyes narrow. Taking a further step into the flat, he carefully shut the door behind him, putting the latch on.

"What are you doing?" Sam asks, her brow furrowing.

"How many hours did you work last night?" Dylan asks, his voice uncharacteristically caring. Or, at least uncharacteristically for post-divorce to his ex-wife.

"What?" Sam asks; the question's caught her more than slightly off guard.

"I said, how many hours did you work?" Dylan repeats, his eyes kind and open. "You were there when I went home, and I'm fairly certain I treated patients brought in by you on my next shift. You didn't go home, did you?"

"No," Sam admits, "there were some…staffing issues. It doesn't matter though. I've done those shifts before and been fine – you know I have." There's a tacit reminder of the crazy shifts she used to pull at King's, back when he was moderately less able to take a step back and agreed to work with her to let her play the hero on more than one occasion.

This time, a singular eyebrow lifts, and Dylan fixes her with a stare that tells her everything she needs to know: he's got a feather in his bow, and he isn't going to let go.

"There's no need to try and play the hero on your own here, Sam," he warns her, breaking eye contact and scanning around the small portion of the flat that he can see.

"And what exactly do you expect me to do?" Sam retorts, her words sounding strangely unthreatening due to her extremely happy tone. "I'm currently talking to you like this to keep this baby happy. I don't think that Robyn is going to appreciate me bringing her slightly smelly baby back after four hours, when I said I'd keep her overnight!"

Dylan snorts. "I never thought I'd see you voluntarily looking after a baby overnight," he admits, setting the plastic bag down on the floor. "Look…I understand if you don't want me to, but let me help. At least until you've had a bit of sleep, and then I'll go."

She can feel a sceptical expression slide onto her face, and Sam has no regrets. " _You_ want to look after a baby?" She repeats.

Reaching out for Charlotte, Dylan nods. The scepticism on Sam's face fades to astonishment as, to her complete surprise, Charlotte's arms reach out in Dylan's direction, and she starts to squirm.

"Looks like you've got a fan," Sam begrudgingly admits. "Since when did you spend time with kids?"

"Hello, Charlotte," Dylan replies, directing his attention towards the baby in his arms as opposed to his ex-wife. "You've gotten bigger since I last saw you, haven't you? Oh, you like my beard?"

She wouldn't say that he was exactly a natural – or even that he uses any form of particularly soft language – but Sam Nicholls has to admit that Dylan is better with kids than she ever could have imagined.

Waiting for a response, Sam loiters in the hallway.

Dylan finally seems to recognise this, and looks away from Charlotte and towards Sam. "I have a two year-old sister called Rihanna and spent a fair amount of time with her when she was a baby because of _his_ continued incompetence as a father," he explains briefly, before turning his attention back to Charlotte.

She doesn't need any additional information about who 'he' is; for all of his secrets during their marriage, Dylan never kept his father's transgressions from her. Brian was the world's worst father – and Sam hadn't ever considered the idea that Dylan would get in contact with him again.

"I…I didn't know," she replies, lost for words.

"Of course you didn't – you left, remember?" Dylan retorts but, for once, there's no bitterness in his reminder that she chose to try and forge an easier path with someone else rather than staying with him.

She doesn't know what to say, but she's suddenly aware of the fact that she doesn't want him to go – not yet anyway.

"Right, well, if you're staying, come through and I'll show you where I've set her up," Sam replies, trying to make her tone as begrudging as possible though she isn't sure how well she succeeds in doing so.

Without comment, Dylan follows her through to the spare room cum Charlotte's temporary base, somehow even dropping down to pick up the bag of wipes without disturbing the child on his hip. Taking sneak peaks in the mirrors which litter her hallway, Sam can't help herself: she can't stop the image of what Dylan would have been like with a child that was _theirs_ from creeping into her mind.

"Er, so here we are," Sam says awkwardly, pushing all thoughts of Dylan with his own child back to where they belong. "I've just put it all in here, but you don't obviously have to stay in here."

"Obviously," is Dylan's dry response. "I take it the living room is to the right?"

"And the kitchen, too," Sam adds, before taking a deep breath. "Look…Dylan, I appreciate this. But are you _sure_? I mean, what do you think Robyn would say if I told her I went to sleep and left Charlotte with her?"

Almost deadpan, Dylan stares back at her for a moment. Then, keeping his voice low, he replies, "I don't know who you think I am, Sam, but I tend not to make suggestions that I don't want to follow through." A brief comment to Charlotte is followed by, "and I'm fairly certain that Robyn would be perfectly happy with me looking after her daughter in your flat, given my role in bringing Glen back to Holby. Though I doubt you paid particularly much attention to that, of course."

Sam's eyes narrow involuntarily, and she can feel an incorrigible need to defend herself rising, but she fights it. Of _course_ she noticed his role in Glen's return – but that isn't the focus of this conversation, and if he needs to believe that she didn't care enough to notice, then he's welcome to do it. For the moment, at least.

"Anyway, milk's in the fridge and mugs are in the cupboard above the kettle if you want a drink," she says, turning her attention to Charlotte and waving flamboyantly. "And you, sweetheart, I'll see _you_ in a couple of hours."

"Sleep as long as you need," Dylan adds in a low voice as Sam turns towards the door. "Honestly. I don't need to be anywhere."

It feels strangely like old times to Sam, Dylan stepping in to help her when it's none of his business. But then, he sort of had to. In those days, he was her husband; now, he's simply someone she gives some work to every now and then.

That doesn't mean, however, that she doesn't appreciate it; in fact, it means more than it ever could have eight years ago. Because this time, he's choosing to help her.

"Thank you," she murmurs, deciding it's too risky to turn around. Turning to face him might make her read further into this than she ought to. "See you soon, Dylan." His name feels both a foreign currency and a strangely familiar word upon her tongue, and it's almost like it was in those heady early days.

Except with a massive difference.

* * *

…

It's more than a minor irritation to be heading to the shop to buy baby wipes for some mysterious reason for his ex-wife, with no information as to why an apparently single woman would have a screaming baby in her flat and an inability to collect them herself.

Well, he corrects himself, swinging the plastic bag by his side despite himself, he knows that it's a struggle to get baby wipes when the baby is already screaming; he's experienced that on his short periods babysitting Rihanna as a small baby. But that doesn't decrease his irritation at being forced to adjust his daily routine of going home after his shift for someone who has repeated on numerous occasions that she doesn't care about him.

Once again, he has to make a minor adjustment to his own thought: she _has_ expressed concern for him in recent months. She's even asked him out for a meal, which was startling. However, that doesn't take back the problems of their first period of working in Holby together…

Impulsively, Dylan makes a short detour to his houseboat to feed Dervla and make sure that she has enough water for a few hours. It's rash, and he doesn't quite know why he hasn't just dropped the wipes off and returned home, but he has a feeling that he's going to be needed. That whatever Samantha Nicholls has managed to get herself into this time, she might need a hand getting out of.

Swiftly, he makes his dog comfortable before retracing his steps towards the small court just a ten minute walk from his home. He wonders idly whether Sam has any idea about where he lives, and whether she's aware that she could have chosen anywhere in Holby but chose to be near him.

Or perhaps it was simply the only flat she could get on the short notice that Josh Griffiths had provided when announcing she was transferring to Holby's Paramedic Team.

He isn't sure why she felt the need to tell him her address, all those months ago. Perhaps she was hoping that he'd come over for a coffee on a Sunday morning, or help her set up some flatpack furniture. Though that seems unlikely, given all he ever did was complain about how weak she made her coffee, and _she_ was the expert at DIY in their two-person household.

That doesn't matter now, though, as he enters the communal door which lacks a security lock and makes his way up a flight of stairs. It's a revelation to him how much he cares about the absence of the keycard or extra key to get through to Sam's flat; it strikes him to think about the potential of what its absence could mean for her safety.

However, he smiles wryly and pushes the thought out of his mind. He'll raise its absence, of course, but only a foolish burglar would dare to cross paths with ex-army Sam Nicholls.

Knocking briskly, he hears a strangely-stressed voice call for him to enter; though perhaps the stress is understandable, given the presence of a child that, to his knowledge, shouldn't live here…

"I don't know why," he begins to comment as he walks through the door, his vision of Sam obscured up until this point. He wants to sound brusque and irritated and everything that he wants to be around the only person who confuses him the way that Sam can.

But that attempt is shattered as soon as he lays eyes upon her, and his entire view of life shifts cataclysmically. And, at that point, he realises that despite his attempts to prove the opposite to himself, he is still hopelessly, deeply, madly in love with Sam Nicholls.

It's stupid, the vaguely objective part of his mind says to himself, but that part is obscured by the focus on Sam.

She's holding a baby on her hip, its place so natural and perfect that he can't imagine it anywhere else. Her hair's tied back into a messy bun with strands hanging across her face, and there's a dubious mark on her cheek. Her face is drawn, pale and sharp, despite the smile on her face directed towards the baby. And yet, to him, she's perfect: more than perfect, truth be told. A fairytale that remains eternally just a fingertip out of reach from reality.

He could stare at her all day, but that isn't a wise idea. He needs to get out of here straight away, to wash the dangerous thoughts out of his mind. It would destroy his soul for her to reject him yet again, and it's unlikely that his sobriety could handle that.

"I…I think I need to go," he mutters, and his grip on the handle intensifies, but he can't move. He can't break his gaze onto the most perfectly imperfect person he's ever met.

She calls, "Dylan, wait!" and, somewhere, he acknowledges that he isn't going anywhere. Already, he's putty in her hands, exactly as if no time had passed since their elopement.

They converse and it takes everything in his power to keep himself from falling to his knees and grovelling her to let him do something, anything. He isn't quite sure what he'd do if he didn't keep the modicum of self-control from exploding into nothingness, but it'd be something that he couldn't come back from.

But, somehow, his words turn into actions, and he's suddenly holding Charlotte Miller, grateful for the distraction and yet strangely eager to spend some time with a child. It's been longer than he can remember since he saw Rihanna, and he misses letting the thought of what it would be like to be a parent flit through his head, no matter how ludicrous it is.

As they walk through the flat, he tries to hide how interested he is in seeing how Sam's sense of style remains almost identical to how it was ten years ago. He's amused to see the painting of the garden in Florence from their honeymoon remains prominently displayed, though he knows it would be more than slightly dangerous to mention it.

He almost drops the baby as, looking into the living room, he spots a picture of himself with Sam, many years before. However, he refocuses and turns into what Sam appears to have made into a temporary baby room, aware that, if she lets him stay, he'll have plenty of time to explore.

She says something, and he can't quite stop himself from giving a sarcastic response.

"Obviously," he quips, though he's marginally relieved he manages to say it. He's been too kind, too attentive, too _calm_ in the hallway; she's surely getting suspicious of the changes. He can't let her crack what's going on – unless she has already. Sam Nicholls was always far brighter than he ever was.

Somehow, he manages to get her to go to bed, though he can't take his eyes off of her retreating form as she leaves the room. But she says his name softly, barely audibly, and it sends ricochets through his heart, involuntary spasms of emotion and memory and a reminder of the _good old days_. He's fallen, well and truly, and he doesn't know how he's going to be able to build himself back up when the night is over and his presence is no longer required.

However, as soon as Sam has gone, Charlotte starts to squirm in his arms, and Dylan remembers that his current role in Sam Nicholls' life is to be a temporary babysitter whilst she takes care of herself.

And, for the moment, that's more than enough for him.

* * *

.

He enjoys his time with Charlotte more than he ever thought possible: it's almost enough to make him forget the slumbering woman on the other side of the flat, spending time with her. They play with a variety of her toys, shifting from the tiny room to the much more spacious living room, the floor rapidly becoming a trip hazard. Thankfully, Charlotte doesn't quite have the ability to walk yet, though she's more than capable of crawling across the floor faster than Dylan can blink.

He starts off by telling her stories of him and Sam when they were together, though that's once he's certain that Sam's asleep. The picture on the wall in the corner of the room is his prompt, and he tells Charlotte everything he can remember about the day the photo was taken. It pleases him more than it should to note the complete absence of Tom, though that could simply be a façade; no matter how intrigued he is, he doesn't want to break the covenant of respect she's placed in him by rooting through her drawers.

After a couple of hours, Charlotte's hungry, so he prepares a small meal for her, using the pram as a temporary crib. She starts to whimper, so he tries singing to her and, thankfully, it calms her down. Subconsciously, it calms him, too, and makes him think much more clearly about the situation. It likely won't last, but neither will the sense of calm in this flat. Something has to break, sooner than later.

They go back to the living room after food, and he puts on a one-man show with an elephant he's named Gertrude, a lion called Fred and a giraffe called Holly. The storyline wouldn't hold up to a magnifying glass for its plot, but Charlotte laughs and seems to enjoy his temporary attempt at amusing her, so it works well enough.

Something catches Charlotte's eye, and her attention moves from Dylan to the corner; he turns, keen to spot whatever it is, and sees Sam standing there, arms folded, her gaze soft and focused on the set up on her living room floor. He doesn't know how long she's been standing there, but part of him hopes that it's been for more than just a minute or two. It's suddenly important to him that she realises how grateful he is for this opportunity.

"Hey," she says gently, shifting her weight from the wall to her own feet. "Didn't want to interrupt the beautiful story of Gertrude."

Dylan clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward, and sets the stuffed toys down. "It was hardly a literary masterpiece…if there had been some other props, I'm sure it could have become, well, something else…"

Sam smiles, and moves from her position on the periphery until she's standing just behind Dylan. Her hand gently rests on his shoulder, and the touch is almost electrifying, but he forces himself to breathe deeply. They're here for Charlotte…

"Dylan, it was wonderful," she responds, her hand still touching him. "Though I'm sure if an encore was requested by our beloved guest, I'm sure I could dig out _some_ props at least."

Clearing his throat once more, Dylan leans over and picks Charlotte up, before passing her over his head to Sam. Only with this does she take her hand from his shoulder, restoring his clarity of thought.

"Dylan?" Sam repeats, and it turns out that clarity of thought doesn't necessarily bring improved hearing.

"I, er…" Dylan trails off, clumsily getting to his feet and realising just what a poor decision this was. Now, standing face-to-face less than a metre from Sam, he can't help but look at her.

"Did you want to stay for dinner?" Sam repeats, a hint of a laugh in her voice. "Robyn said Charlotte was to go to bed in her pram around eight, and we're almost at that now, but if you…want to stay afterwards, for dinner?"

His heart leaps, but he doesn't know what he should do. Would Dylan Keogh of five hours ago be as keen to say yes, particularly when he turned her dinner invitation down only weeks ago?

It doesn't matter what he should do, however, because he finds himself saying, "well, I suppose I could stay a bit longer," simply to see the smile on her face.

She grants him that; when she smiles, it's like she's incandescent, the sun in human form. "Excellent. Well, I'll get Charlotte ready for bed – with bath number two in order – if you want to maybe look in the fridge, see what we could have?"

"You never did like cooking," Dylan can't help but say, reminiscing about the first (and only) time Sam made a three course meal.

"I've gotten better!" She retorts, before turning her attention back to Charlotte. "Now then, missy, let's see if we can get you ready for bed, shall we?"

Following Sam through the hallway, Dylan stops at the kitchen and peers into the fridge he already knows is practically empty. Working shift work, as he well knows, leads to a difficulty in ensuring a high quality of meals, and he's unsurprised that Sam hasn't got much in.

Hesitating, he's unsure what to do until he remembers about the convenience store on the corner down from Sam's flat. Surely they'll have something that he can make?

Deciding that he should leave a note, so as to avoid interrupting the sanctity of a bedtime, Dylan scribbles on the back of an empty envelope his plans, and his promise to be back soon. Part of him wants to add a kiss at the end, but he manages to push that down: that wouldn't exactly be the best of starts for a newly amicable ex-couple. To compensate, he adds a postscript, telling her to text him any further items she may want bringing in.

Gently closing the door behind him, he heads down to the shop, hoping that the short break from the flat will help him to finally conquer the rediscovered feelings.

(Odds are, it won't help in the slightest).

* * *

…

"Dylan?" Sam calls quietly through the hallway, closing the door to Charlotte's temporary bedroom halfway behind her. "She's asleep – I think. Only took fifteen minutes!"

She frowns as she enters the kitchen: it's empty. So is the living room, though she pauses a moment to pick up the selection of toys littering her floor. For a moment, she thinks that maybe he's gone to the bathroom, but she checks: all empty.

And then it hits her. He's gone. He left.

It hurts more than she thought it would – hurts more than it _should_ , she corrects herself – as she sinks down onto the sofa cushion nearest the door, stuffed elephant in her hand. He said he'd stay for dinner. She isn't imagining it, she's certain of that, because she remembers the feeling of utter joy that his confirmation brought to her.

It's her own fault, she thinks bitterly. She was the one who asked him to come over here. She shouldn't have let him touch Charlotte, shouldn't have allowed his kindness and concern to open up long-closed boxes in her mind. She shouldn't have let herself dream of their good memories, adapting some of them to create fictitious futures which their better selves would share. Because all it's done is make his departure that much more difficult.

Perhaps it's divine justice: she left him, and now he's left her.

She's preparing herself to get up, to push Dylan Keogh as far out of the front of her mind as possible, when she hears a noise at the door. It's a key scraping the lock, though the barrel doesn't turn.

Her first thought is that someone is trying to break in.

Slowly, carefully, she approaches the front door to her flat, picking up the piece of wood that she leaves by the door specifically for this reason. Hovering just far enough to be out of the door's way as it opens, she waits as, this time, the right key is entered into the lock, turning the barrel.

The door opens, and she drops the piece of wood onto her foot, surprised to see the entrant.

A quizzical brow lifts on her visitor's face, and he says, "I certainly didn't expect _that_."

"Dylan," Sam says weakly, breathing a sigh of relief. "I thought you were someone trying to break in."

"Break in with a _key_?" Dylan clarifies, taking a step through the door and closing it behind him. He waves a key in her direction, before using it to lock the door. "I know that the downstairs door doesn't have a lock, but I wasn't aware of the fact that neighbourly criminals had your key too, Sam."

His casual use of her name distracts her and, for a moment, she imagines that this is a scene from ten years ago. He's home from a shift, to spend the evening with her.

"Wait…" Sam says slowly, her own brow furrowing. "How have you got a key?" A beat's pause, then she adds, "and where did you go?"

"Ah yes, I hope you don't mind…I saw it hanging on the coat hook and decided that it was a better idea to leave the door locked, particularly with you looking after a baby," Dylan explains, removing his shoes in the particularly Dylan way. "And where did I go? Did you not see my note?"

"Note?" Sam repeats, though her brain runs away with this. _He was always coming back_. He hadn't left her – hadn't decided to use this brief period of vulnerability to punish her.

Dylan rolls his eyes. "I thought paramedics were supposed to be observant? The note? I left in the kitchen explaining I was going to buy some food – I can work miracles, Sam, but I can't work with just butter and jam – and if you wanted anything in particular, let me know?"

She breathes a sigh of relief and, closing her eyes for a second, takes a moment to thank everything that she can think of that he wasn't leaving. He was coming back.

"Thank you," she says, unsure of what exactly she can say to Dylan. What _do_ you say to someone who cares so much for everyone, almost completely under the radar? "Really. Thank you."

His smile, albeit small, lights up his entire face; combined with the image flashing in her mind of the easy way he held Charlotte earlier, she can't stop herself.

She is catastrophically, completely and utterly in love with the man she pushed away years ago.

A new development? She doesn't think so; it's always been there, after all. She never fell out of love with him, she just didn't think that they worked at the time. Which, in fairness, they didn't. But she's changed and he clearly has and, maybe, they've changed enough to be the best people that they can be for each other, as well as for themselves.

"Sam?" This time, it's Dylan's turn to say her name and bring her back to the moment. It doesn't quite have that effect, however: she can just imagine him saying her name over and over again, in every single tone that she's ever heard him use.

"Sorry, spaced out a second," she manages to say, forcing a smile onto her lips. "What did you say?"

"Just that potentially we should get on with cooking," Dylan repeats, surprisingly patiently. "Or, you can put away the shopping and I'll actually cook the meal so that it's edible."

It's only at that point that Sam looks down at Dylan's hands to see not one but three laden carrier bags; as she stares at them, she can feel tears pricking the backs of her eyes and has to fight to keep them hidden.

"Bloody hell, did you buy the entire corner shop?" The only way to keep herself from either crying or launching herself onto him (and therefore embarrassing herself when he rejects her) is to find some modicum of sarcasm within her.

"I had to," Dylan replies, following her through to the kitchen. "I've seen display units with more edible food in than your kitchen."

As she starts to unpack and put food away, Dylan pulls some things out of her hands before she can put them down, clearly intending them to be part of the meal. They don't talk as they work, but simply the feeling of being close to him is strangely relaxing for Sam, until she runs out of food to put away. Instantly, she regrets working so quickly, to lose the excuse for being close to him.

Until she pulls the final item out of the bag: a beautiful white wine, one that had always been her favourite.

They'd gone to the vineyard where it was produced on the holiday after their honeymoon, and it had been one of the best moments of their entire marriage.

She can feel the tears approaching again as she stares intently at the label. Her silence must attract his attention, because she can feel his eyes on her.

"That is the right one, isn't it?" He sounds concerned, and she can't help but laugh. The man who remembers everything shouldn't doubt himself.

"Of course it is," she replies instantly, looking up at him for the first time in almost a minute. "Thank you…I know it must have been hard for you, buying it."

"I knew you like it," is all he says in reply.

She puts it in the fridge, her hand lingering on the label, before getting two tumblers out of the cupboard and filling them with cold water from the tap. As she hands one to Dylan, she can see his inquisitive expression forming, and pre-empts his question.

"We're babysitting tonight," she reminds him. "And I want to drink the same thing as you." Taking a deep breath, she continues, "I'll go and check on Charlotte, good luck with cooking."

She hopes that he understands the hidden meaning in her gesture – or even simply that he recognises that there was a second way of interpreting what she said…

* * *

…

She clears off the jumble of broken hair bobbles, unopened mail and paramedic training leaflets from the scarcely used dinner table in preparation for dinner. As soon as it's ready, she can smell the scent of her favourite meal from Italy, spaghetti carbonara, and instinctively knows that he's made it the way that they learnt all those years ago.

Either he's trying to tell her something, or she's reading far too much into the actions of a man who has always preferred to cook something from scratch than make a ready meal.

"It smells delicious," she says by way of thanks as she accepts her plate, trying her best to stop herself devouring it straight away.

"Just like in Italy," is Dylan's response, an unusually reminiscent tinge to his voice as he takes the seat opposite her.

Deciding that this is her chance to start a conversation about more than just their shared place of work, Sam starts a conversation about Italy, a chance to bring back some of the best memories of their marriage.

"Do you remember when we tried to go to the colosseum and ended up walking in a circle for three hours?" Sam begins.

Dylan snorts. "In the days before Google Maps took the fun out of the journey and made it all about the destination."

"We found that place that did amazing calzones," Sam continues, her eyes misty with memory. "I got the recipe off him, tried to make it when we got home…"

"And proceeded to start a small fire," Dylan finishes, smiling. "How you managed to set fire to a hob that wasn't even in use is still beyond me."

"You managed to fix it though," she reminds him of the ultimately happy ending to the story. "You always did. You always _do_." Too forward, she decides afterwards, but what's the worst that can happen? He leaves, this time deliberately?

She can cope with that.

He doesn't reply instantly, instead twirling spaghetti around his fork like an expert.

"I fix far less than you think I do," he finally says, focusing intently on his plate. "I was never the man you thought I was, no matter how hard I tried to be him."

It seems like, for the first time since their separation, they're talking about their marriage. Or maybe their marriage is a reflection of now, a step from failure towards success: a step beginning with talking about the divides and historic baggage that accompanies them every time they're in a room together.

"And, clearly, I never was the person you thought I was," Sam admits, staring intently at Dylan, willing him to look up. "But I've changed. You've changed. We've both changed."

"Indeed we have," Dylan responds, finally looking in Sam's general direction. "But at least we both still like Italian food."

Sam can't think of a way to bring the conversation back, so it draws to a close except for small comments on how beautiful the food is. All she wants to do is to talk to him frankly, to tell him the truth of just _how_ much she's changed. To tell him how she feels. To find a way to get them somewhere, not where they left things all those years ago, but somewhere _better_.

It doesn't seem like it's going to happen tonight…and maybe that's okay.

* * *

…

He doesn't leave straight after dinner, though she expects him to. Instead, he stays and helps with the dishes, washing up whilst she dries. _"You always hated washing up_ ," he says as he starts to pour a bowl of water. She leaves to check on Charlotte whilst he starts to clean, returning to put the dishes away, hoping that the night can go on for just another five minutes.

Finally, the washing up is done, the leftovers are safely in a newly washed tuppaware for lunch tomorrow, and they're at an impasse, until they both speak at the same time.

"I guess you should be going soon," Sam says, just as Dylan suggests, "do you want a coffee?"

They blink before staring at each other in silence for a moment, before simultaneously speaking once more.

"Yes, of course, coffee sounds great."

"No, yes, you're right, I should really get back…"

She wants him to stay. She needs him to stay.

"Dylan, stay," Sam continues, but Dylan shakes his head.

"No, you're right. It's late. I'm sorry, I didn't think…you're definitely right."

"Dylan!" Sam repeats, raising her voice slightly. "Please. Please stay for a coffee."

She stares at him intently, pleading with her eyes to make him stay. It doesn't matter that it's stupid or ridiculous or probably insanely selfish: she doesn't want this night of Sam and Dylan to end, not just yet.

There's an eternity of silence before, finally, he says, "where are the granules?"

"You're staying?" Sam exclaims, shocked that he's bent to her will. That wouldn't have been a surprise ten years ago; he was putty in her hands. Now, however, she's surprised that he listened.

"Of course I'm staying," he replies, returning to his usual, brusque self. "Now, granules? I don't think I can cope with a Sam Nicholls strength coffee."

* * *

…

They sit and drink coffee and talk about nothing. Once he starts talking, it's surprisingly difficult to stop Dylan talking. The only things that manage it are an interlude of a wailing child and the promise of some newly purchased hobnob biscuits.

It's absolute nonsense, half of what they say. Which person in history would be the most interesting to meet, what different colours mean. She grabs a magazine at one point and they try and guess the horoscopes before they read them. He makes two, three more cups of coffee, and it becomes increasingly transparent that neither of them want this night to end.

At first, they sit at opposite ends of the sofa; by the end, they're just centimetres apart. She could reach out and touch him, if she wanted to. But she doesn't, scared that she's read something insanely different from the truth.

(He thinks the same, worried that she's lonely and sees this simply as a way to fill the void. And he doesn't think he can cope with her breaking his heart yet again – because it was hers as soon as she mentioned Italy.)

"Do you ever wish that life had turned out differently?" She asks him, deciding to take the plunge into the hypothetical. "Like, a different career, or a different route into medicine, a different hospital?" A chance to meet someone different to her, she means.

He thinks for a moment, before meeting her gaze, his eyes a rare window into his soul.

"No," he finally says. "It's been a rocky ride but, overall, I don't think I'd want it to be any different." A pause before he adds, "do you wish? That it had been different, I mean?"

She doesn't have to think. "No," she agrees. "Because if anything had changed, if I'd stayed as a doctor or literally anything, I wouldn't be in this flat right now, drinking too strong coffee and babysitting a baby, with…with you." _The man I love_ , she wants to add, but doesn't quite dare to.

"Then it looks like life has worked out quite well for the both of us," he replies, his voice soft, soft, soft. Almost as soft as cotton wool, as smooth as silk, as passionate as the first day that she kissed him, back in the senior doctors' office in King's, when he'd first told her that he resigned as her mentor.

They're still staring at each other, centimetres apart, a lifetime's history visible on the lines and shapes of their faces. Neither of them move; despite making an assumption about what the other thinks, there's an eternity's worth of hesitation, of doubts and concern that, maybe, they've misread this entire situation.

Then they move.

Their lips meet and it's as if everything finally clicks into place. The ground feels firmer, the sky more open as Sam slips her hands into his hair and he pulls her closer to him. It's almost how things were before, but different – so different. She's less naïve and he's more emotionally available, and, hell, it's perfect. He tastes like she imagines the moon to taste, and she can't imagine this moment ending.

(She's the sun to him, she always has been and always will be, though nowadays she shines brighter than ever. A supernova to destroy his life – hell, he'd take that in a heartbeat if it meant he had just one more day with Sam Nicholls.)

After what feels like an eternity, they break apart, though she keeps her hand on his shoulder, unwilling to break the connection entirely.

Looking into his eyes, she thinks of a thousand things to say, but none of them quite feel right for the moment. Until, finally, she settles on, "I like the beard."

It's clear he didn't expect that, and he's silent for a moment before he laughs. It's a sound she'd forgotten how much she loves: hearty and genuine, and completely Dylan Keogh.

"Really?"

"Really," she confirms, smiling. "It's perfect.

"Just like you."

He kisses her again, and she forgets everything but the feeling of his skin against hers as she pulls him as close as she can on this blasted sofa, willing the night to never end.

* * *

…

Unfortunately, it does. He has to go to work via his houseboat and she has a baby to entertain for a day.

But when he says goodbye with a twinkle in his eye and a kiss on his lips, this time, she knows it isn't forever.

* * *

Please tell me what you think and if you have any other ideas for Sam/Dylan because I am not ready to let them go.


End file.
